He Touched Me ~ Reddie (IT)

I FUCKING LIKE YOU, ALRIGHT?!

"Alright, Eddie, this is your last treatment."

"Been a fast eighteen weeks, huh?"

"And an even faster, what, hundred sessions?"

"Yeah. It's been one hundred and five. I've never felt... straighter."

"Go get yourself a girl, Eddie."

"I will."

"Beginning round one hundred and five of electroshock reprogramming on patient 827 in three... two... one. Begin reprogramming."

"I'm just glad the fag doesn't scream like a little bitch anymore."

"Yeah. Ever since he bit through his tongue he doesn't make a sound."

~

It kinda feels like every other sentence I say is a lie. Between insisting I'm okay over what happened with It and what goes on during therapy, I'm not exactly telling the truth a whole lot. And honestly? That's not even the worst of it. I'll lie, grit my teeth through the pain, and even-... Hell, I'll even fuck a girl. But nothing, nothing has been worse than not seeing Richie. I haven't seen him since that day in the Quarry, much less talked to him.

I know that my doctors and therapists and mother say he's bad for me, I just don't under how. How could someone who makes me so blissfully happy ever be bad?

I told Bill to tell Richie that I can't see him anymore. I said I'm not sure why, though. But that was a lie. I know damn well why. As part of my conversion, they made me confess who "tainted" me. Then they forbade me from seeing him again.

I don't like not seeing Richie. And no Richie means less time with my other friends too. I haven't talked to Mike in months. It's been longer since I talked to Stan. I can barely recall the last time I hung out with Ben and my conversations with Bill have been sparse.

I can't remember Bev's middle name anymore. Even her last name is kinda fuzzy.

I made eye contact with Richie in the hallway during a passing period today.

I almost cried at the sight of him.

His hair was longer than I've ever seen it. His cheeks were hollow and his skin was yellow. His eyes were deep and empty, void of emotion. His glasses hung off the collar of his shirt, one of the lenses still cracked from when I kicked him. His lips were chapped, cracked and downturned. His cheek was bruised and the cut under his right eye had turned into a faint scar.

It wasn't until we nearly brushed shoulders that he processed it was me.

"Eds?"

I swore I heard him say it.

I spent the rest of the day lost in my own head, and not but twenty minutes ago, I made up my mind: I'm going to see Richie.

I finished my therapy yesterday. Those doctors aren't my doctors anymore. I don't have to listen to what they said months ago. And I'm cured

(liar)

so I don't have to worry about my urges coming up. They're buried down and gone. I've never been straighter.

(Liar.)

I race downstairs and pick up the phone, dialing Bill's number quickly.

"Hello?"

It's Bill's dad.

"Can I talk to Bill?"

He doesn't reply, but I hear shuffling and a few moments later I hear a familiar voice.